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by phrenitis



Category: Fringe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-30
Updated: 2010-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:10:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phrenitis/pseuds/phrenitis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is both of them now, better on all counts, maybe a little crazy too, and she is careful to never ever slip.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Season Three, _The Plateau_

_“The old thin ache you thought that you’d forgotten –  
More smoke, admittedly, than flame;  
Less tears than rain. And the whole business  
Neither here nor there, and therefore home.”  
\-- Bernard O’Donoghue, ‘Westering Home’_

==

Sometimes, it’s almost a pity that she’ll have to leave. There is less doubt, more success, like she’s supposed to be here, like maybe this is really the right universe after all.

Charlie picks her up in the morning, coffee ready. It’s with cream, the way the other Olivia takes it, and she sees Peter in the back seat waiting patiently.

“Thank you, Charlie,” she says.

==

She knows Walter knows, is responsible, and she tries not to dwell on the differences wrought by universes and circumstances. He is a father figure, a benevolent visionary, and on this she disagrees. The other feelings are wrong.

Peter stands behind her, warmth and strength against her back as she is questioned, debriefed. Rarely does she sense that Walter suspects – only Broyles watches closely. She is both of them now, better on all counts, maybe a little crazy too, and she is careful to never _ever_ slip.

“Time to go home,” Peter reminds her.

She watches as the blood is drawn – three vials, small and red. It reminds her of bullets, but the memory isn’t hers. “Home,” she says, tastes the word.

Broyles looks up and gives a nod. “See you tomorrow.”

==

Her aim is spectacular, the other Olivia correcting stance and pressure almost unnoticed. She wonders if she can bring this back with her, a souvenir.

Lincoln congratulates her, a hearty punch to her shoulder, and their lengthy history together floods her mind. The moment turns bittersweet, but Lincoln is already turning away, running off excited about something.

“To the bar!” he calls back to her.

Later, when she’s a few drinks in, bright lights and music spinning her senses, Peter stops her before she takes the fourth, or maybe it’s the fifth shot. She looks at their hands clenched together around the glass, and anger boils up, desperation. She throws the glass at the far wall, liquid and shattered remains running to the floor.

“Alright!” Lincoln cheers, then does likewise, the sharp crash of the glass a reminder.

“It was a good day,” she says to both of them.

==

In bed, she waits for Frank.

Peter rests beside her and she turns into him, wanting to be held. It’s in her head, she knows, but his chest is beneath her hand – heat and muscle, the steady beat of his heart – daring her to say otherwise.

“Maybe I’m supposed to be here.” She states it as fact.

His fingers run through her hair, soft strokes against her head, her neck, and she thinks about them on the other side. She wonders if Peter will follow her there.

“I’m not real, remember?” he says.

She shrugs. “Real is just a matter of perception.”

“Olivia?” Frank’s voice from the doorway makes her jump, and she looks up to see him watching her with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” She waves him to the bed, lets the other Olivia take over as she offers a smile. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Peter leaves, the faint kiss to her neck already a memory.

 

 _-Fin_


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